


_Operational Support System

by limitedpractice



Category: Transformers - All Media Types, Transformers: Shattered Glass
Genre: Doctor/Patient, Dubious Consent, Dubious Morality, Other, Robot Sex, Robot/Human Relationships, Rung's in control of everyone, Sex, because he's just looking out for you, but nothing lasts forever, but when he's right next to you and Looking at you, it's hard to care, just a self-indulgent fic of Rung helping you, with his words and body, you know he's manipulative and a liar
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-09-05
Updated: 2020-04-12
Packaged: 2020-10-10 05:27:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,407
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20522693
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/limitedpractice/pseuds/limitedpractice
Summary: You're doing your best to adapt to life on the Lost Light in a universe you don't belong in, but fending off unwanted advances from the rest of the crew is exhausting. Fortunately the ship's therapist has a treatment plan for you, and will teach you how to show disinterest and detach your mind so they'll leave you alone.But this is SG Rung, and he's going to fuck with your head before he starts anywhere else.





	1. [one]

**Author's Note:**

> SG Rung is the worst and I love him.
> 
> This started off as a quick self-indulgent smut story when I was hit hard with an SG Rung craving, but has now become a multi-chapter self-indulgent story with something approaching an actual plot.
> 
> Thank you so much to [shapeofmetal](https://shapeofmetal.tumblr.com) for all of the SG discussions and your ideas for this story. And your art! The amazing art that's at the end of chapter 1 and which is Perfect. Let me just go and spend another few hours looking at him because hot damn.  
[Here's the source for Glasses Exercise](https://shapeofmetal.tumblr.com/image/186941049234) and  
[Here's the source for Rung's Hands](https://twitter.com/metal_shape/status/1160783516830859264?s=20) (third picture in a trio of perfection)
> 
> And thank you to everyone who reads this!

“It’s only as difficult as you perceive it to be.”

You want to tell Rung that he’s wrong.

You want to tell him he’s so utterly wrong that it's breathtaking. You want these words to ignite the fuel you know is waiting to be used so that you’re propelled to your feet and to the door, where you’ll look over your shoulder at him in one smooth movement and, with the invincible power of righteousness, calmly state that you’re not afraid of him. That he can’t touch you in any way that counts anymore. That he’s quite pathetic actually. A sad, lonely, powerless joke of a doctor who’s barely tolerated let alone noticed around here and speaking of being a doctor, who messed up and actually awarded him a medical certificate? Were they drunk or asleep or lobotomized or a combination of all three that day? 

Rung will then look at you in awe but mostly fear and you’ll know you’ve crushed him. You’ve broken the neck of the snake and now it’s only a matter of minutes, maybe hours, before the body catches up and realises its dead. You’ll feel weightless with relief and ironclad strong with the knowledge that no-one on this ship will ever try to touch you again. Their looks; their hot suggestive whispers; their drawn out touches as they pass too close by you in the corridor will all stop. They’ll all die. 

But that belongs to a different version of you. A version who’s safely stored in a reality so untouchable it’s worse than a dream.

This version of you is still here. Still stuck in a mirror universe that’s been flipped and broken and sentenced to live on a ship crewed by corrupted facsimiles of people you once knew. This version of you is still in Rung’s office for your first treatment session with him, sitting on a comfortable sofa with the door locked securely. The lights are dim and Rung is sitting closer than he should. 

And just as you think that, your doctor slides another inch closer to you. He’s a hard throb of metal the colour of a bruise, dark blue and black that beats with an artificially bright spark. You fear and hate and desire him in an unbalanced ratio that you know is only going to get worse. And what’s worse right now is that you both know it. You see it in his shielded eyes and he sees it in your exposed ones, the knowledge that you hate yourself for fearing him less than you should and wanting him more than is right.

“Concentration," Rung repeats himself, his voice clipped and off-key but still melodious. "It’s only as difficult as you perceive it to be.” He's warm. His frame radiates a soft insistent heat that reminds you of blankets and pillows and the first sip of a hot drink at the perfect temperature after coming in from the cold. You want to press yourself into him and become enveloped in a hug so reassuring and comforting you feel a safety bordering on invincibility. That's what your Rung would do for you.

But this isn't your Rung. This Rung is doing something else for you. This Rung is doing something else to you.

"You have to learn to still your body and center your thoughts," Inverse-Rung tells you solemnly. “Then lock those thoughts away in a safe place and guard them. That’s where the real you will be. The physical representation of you will still be with them, but you won’t be. Because if you don’t...” He pauses. “You know what they're like, don't you?"

Oh you know what they're like. And you know what they like. Every bot on this version of the Lost Light has touched you or spoken to you or looked at you in a way that sets your skin prickling and your stomach clenching, including Rung. Especially Rung.

But Rung is also the only one who's offered to teach you how to defend yourself against the others. You don't truly believe he can help you stop their advances and give you one night's unbroken sleep but you're desperate. And scared. And lonely. And if you don’t stop crying in the middle of your shift you’re going to regret it, that’s what the Captain said to you, and you know what happened to the last person who defied him. And so you accepted Rung’s offer of treatment the first time he cornered you and whispered it in your ear.

Rung slowly raises one arm and puts it on the back of the seat behind your head. The back of your neck pinches rather than prickles, and a thick line of ice bleeds down your spine.

"This is how they like to sit next to you, isn't it."

Rung isn’t asking you a question. And he isn't touching you but he's close, so very close now. He is sitting like the others do, but unlike them you don't want to jump up and run away as fast as possible. You should very much want to but you don't.

You nod, unable to speak. He's so very close and so very warm. 

If you chose to stop sitting ramrod straight and slouch back into the chair your head would come to rest on his arm, but you'd like that too much and he might not like it at all so you don't.

You want to look away from him. You want to do many things, but you what you really want is to look away from a face that's both horrific and beautiful. But you can't. 

Rung tilts his head as he watches you, his soft smile fixed in place. “If you don't react to them they'll get bored and leave you alone, but only if you don't rise to their bait. You can’t control their inner desires and nor should you want to, not really, not completely, so you need to practice not reacting. You may find my treatment program...unorthodox, but we’re living in unusual times and I have to move with them. You do understand don’t you?”

Without waiting for an answer, Rung moves even closer to you. He is warm dark metal that smells good in the way something shouldn’t be, like spilled gasoline. You swallow dryly, and wonder how he would taste. How much it would burn before it sickens you. You wonder how much you could stomach. 

“I’m here to help you,” Rung says, radiating heat and hope. “Don’t forget that’s all I ever want to do.”

With studied slowness Rung takes off his glasses and holds them out to you. As you look at them warily, Rung uses his thumb to smear a bead of sweat into your cheek. His mouth parts slightly, and you wonder if he’s going to put that thumb in his mouth. Maybe he’ll wipe your entire face dry with his hand, or maybe his lips, and your greatest worry now is that he’ll be repulsed by the taste of you. 

You can't look away from his eyes. Those unblinking empty pits of light hold your attention so completely that you didn’t know he’d moved his arm from the seat to support your back and shoulders but that’s what he’s done. 

“It’s OK,” he reassures you, fingers playing around your shoulder and lightly brushing your neck. “There's no need to be nervous. I trust you.”

Before you can mount your defenses you lean back into his support, telling yourself it's to placate him by showing trust in return and knowing it's a lie.

The warm metal of him soaks through your shirt and into your skin. Rung squeezes your shoulder, sending a spike of something to the bottom of your stomach that makes you hope he does it again. He feels solid and you feel good, and that realization makes you half-heartedly try to sit up.

Rung squeezes tighter and holds you in place and you're grateful that he hasn't left you or told you off. “You have to practice,” he whispers, voice like contaminated silk. “I’ll help you. I’ve already told you that. But you have to commit.”

In his other hand Rung still holds his glasses towards you in a pinch, at a perfect angle. 

He falls silent. 

Your overworked heart speeds up faster as you wonder what you're supposed to do. Take them? Examine them? Compliment them? Try them on?

Rung’s hollow optics bore holes into you. The soft smile on his face doesn't waver because you know it's dead. But his lips look malleable, a softer blend of living metal that could mold into all the right shapes if he put his mind to it. You feel your mouth part slightly as you wonder what else that mouth could do, and what it would feel like to have it on you.

It's as if you’ve spoken those words out loud, because Rung’s terrible smile stretches wider. He moves even closer to you, impossibly close now so that he’s touching you. His knee makes contact with yours and your heart stutters. 

A spark of sickly light flashes and then dies in one of Rung’s eyes. You clamp your mouth shut.

Time bleeds thickly between you. It could have been minutes but was probably only seconds or was it? You don’t know. Rung’s not telling you. He is so very patient until he chooses not to be. “You have work to do,” he reminds you. The glasses are still held out to you in sharp angles.

You swallow and made a decision, because anything is better than sitting here doing nothing except imagining what Rung's going to do next and wondering why he hasn't done it yet. If you make the first move you have a chance to control the situation, no matter how unlikely that chance is.

You take his glasses.

“Thank you,” Rung says, in a way that suggests he knows exactly what you’re thinking and he’s amused by the fact you still have hope.

You’ve been told by every bot on the Lost Light you’ve been brave or desperate enough to ask that mind-reading is impossible, but every bot on the Lost Light lies to you so that doesn’t mean a thing.

“I wonder what else you secretly think about,” Rung continues, pretending to think hard about you and your bold move. “What other kernels of desire in your heart do you pretend to ignore?”

You look at the glasses in your hand and pretend they’re distracting you from his words. 

“Put them on.” Rung says this as if offering you a naughty treat that you mustn’t tell anyone about. “But slowly. They’re not a perfect fit and they might fall off and shatter and we don’t want you on your hands and knees at my feet, do we?”

You make eye contact with him again and your chest constricts at what you see.

“Picking up the broken pieces,” he elaborates, waving a finger at you in pretend admonition. “Your mind…”

You watch that slender finger wave back and forth and imagine it on your lips.

“...is in flux.” His finger stops and you blink. “This is an exercise in focus and balance, so put the glasses on slowly. And concentrate.”

You do.

The lenses are surprisingly heavy, and to counterbalance their weight you have to tilt your head so far back it’s forced to rest on Rung’s arm. It leaves your neck stretched and exposed.

“Very good.” Rung tells you, complementing his compliment with a squeeze to your shoulder. “You have surprisingly excellent balance. But that skill is nothing if you can’t employ it in the face of conflict and distraction.” His hand moves from your shoulder and slowly, languidly, his fingertips crawl up your neck and sink smoothly into your hair.

You feel every muscle in your body tense. But the glasses don't slip from your face because you’ve had enough time to expect him to put his hand on your head, and it doesn't come as a surprise when he does. Rung didn’t ever intend for it to be a surprise. You make a scalding split second of eye contact with your dark sun of truth telling you that you wanted Rung to touch you like that, and that you’re glad he did, and you inhale heavily again and again and again.

“Shhhhh,” Rung reassures you, his fingers swimming down through your hair to find your scalp. “You’re doing so well.” He strokes the base of your skull and his knee presses harder into yours and you hate your reaction to how this all feels.

Rung plays with your hair and you wish you were anywhere else in the universe.

“Let’s go up a practice level,” he finally tells you. “I think you’re ready for it.”

Rung stops kneading your scalp and removes his hand and you wish he’d put it back, that loss of contact is already too much too soon. Rung adjusts himself slightly and puts his hand on your knee.

The heat from his small hand spreads like corrupted fire down your legs and up your spine, immobilizing you and stoking a need you wished would burn into nothing. 

For a short time that feels irritatingly long he just leaves it there. And then he slowly starts to move it.

His hand has barely left your knee to reach your thigh before you’ve instinctively spread your legs to give him easier access. A sharp second later you realise what you’ve done and you jerk in horror and try to clamp your legs back together. 

Rung grips you hard and his glasses wobble on your face. You close your eyes and make a halfhearted effort to finally put up a fight and stand up.

Rung’s grip on your thigh is diamond hard and rare, preventing you from going anywhere. “No. Don’t do that. Why do you want to leave? I’m working overtime here to help you. Don’t you want to be helped? Don’t you trust me?"

You trust him the least out of every bot on this ship. There are countless bots bigger and louder and stronger than him, bots that could kill you with a flick of their finger and who make so secret about what they want to do to you. But they’re more intimidating than debilitating, and you know what’s coming a mile away with them. They’re not like Rung. Rung the therapist, who’s never without a gentle smile and a word of praise for you, who hides his true motivations and reveals them only when you’re at your most vulnerable. You’re not stupid. You know he’s not doing all of this for your greater good. 

But.

But what if he could be? What if you do so well that you change his mind for him? What if one day you could have actually have control? 

Rung relaxes his grip and slowly strokes your thigh. “If someone else does this to you they won’t be gentle like me. They won’t care like me. I’m doing this to help you, to prepare you, so trust me. Please. I don’t know how many more times I have to say it. Just relax. Sit back and pretend this means nothing to you. Measure how long I can do this before getting I become bored.”

You wonder if he’s left bruises on your thigh. You wonder if he’ll ask you to undress so he can see for himself and pretend to care. Maybe he’ll have you sitting half naked next to him as he makes you watch them form and change colour. Maybe he’ll apologise and kiss them, and your hand will cup the back of his head as his tongue moves on you. You swallow painfully, and don’t have to force your leg muscles to relax any more.

“Good.” Rung rewards you with a stroke that makes you open your legs wider. “This is good. You’re pretending this means so little that you’re inviting me to touch you further instead of fighting it. Putting up a fight indicates that you care about my actions and therefore my motivations.”

Rung strokes your leg up to your hip and back down to your knee and he’s careful, so very careful, not to change the light pressure he’s applying. It’s welcome and infuriating.

“You really don’t care about my actions,” Rung says in fake disappointment. “You’re pretending to squirm whenever my fingers touch you just, there.” He shakes his head at himself. “Clearly I’m the one that needs to practice more."

You press your entire leg into him but Rung pulls back, maintaining the contact he thinks is best for you. The distance that he’d like best. 

“Now open your eyes and look at me,” he orders. “Do so slowly.”

You decide to open both eyes at the same time instead of one after the other. You do so slowly, as instructed, and as you make eye contact with Rung you wonder what he sees. A pliant human with bright heavy lenses covering their face, relaxing back into his arm with their legs spread open in a silent plea to be touched more. Your mouth is open and you’re breathing heavier and Rung’s hand does not stop moving.

“Good.” Rung’s hand finally stops at the top of your legs and he smiles. He pauses there, waiting, and you hate that your fear is overridden by impatience. “You completed that practice well.”

Then he puts his hand between your legs. You simultaneously lean into and away from his touch, your head pressing down painfully onto his arm as your lower body arches into his hand.

“Now that’s far too much movement,” Rung tells you. “If someone does this to you, don’t move. Don’t give them the satisfaction. Even if I stroke you like this.”

His hand moves between your legs. Lightly, so very lightly, again and again and again. 

The lack of friction makes you want to grab his hand and rub it hard against you but that’s disgusting and you’re not that far gone yet. Maybe you should actually try what he’s suggesting. You should ignore it and pretend his touches don’t mean a thing to you. Feign supreme indifference so he'll get bored and unsettled and leave you alone.

It says a lot about Rung’s treatment that he hasn’t given you any examples of how to do this. 

But you can’t pretend it isn’t affecting you. It’s impossible. Rung’s skilled hand moves over you in all the right ways and the last time you felt this hot was when you were sick with a fever. 

You've never once broken eye contact with Rung since you opened your eyes, but you can't remember how his soft smile became so wet. It's as if he’s been licking his lips this whole time without you noticing. 

You moan softly for the first time. You wish he’d speed up. You wish he’d do a lot of things. You wish you didn’t wish them.

Rung moves his head even closer to yours, so close you think you can see the pin prick of a black hole that sits left of center in both his eyes. His hand stops moving between your legs. And then with just two fingers he starts rubbing you. The pressure has deepened a level but it’s not enough, it's still not enough. In fact it's now worse than before, because you were finally coming to terms with the fact that he wasn't going to give you any more.

And now he is.

Rung's timing is impeccable. He’s stroking you through the fabric with a torturous slowness and your mouth is open and you’re breathing heavily.

“Good. You’re doing well for your first time. But focus on your breathing - in through your nose and out through your mouth. If you keep gasping just through your mouth like that people will get ideas, and you don't want that. Do you?”

You want to ask him what his ideas are. You want to hear every dirty one of them. But you shake your head no.

“Good. You don’t want to encourage anyone with your behaviour. You’re giving me all the signals of frustrated desire but I know you’re just pretending. You don't really enjoy me touching you like this. You're doing so well here. You’re working so hard.” His thumb hooks into the top of your pants.

“Can I try something else with you? Do I have your permission?"

You nod quickly. He could ask you for anything and you’d agree to it. But only out of a need to survive, you tell yourself in a counterfeit token of justification. You’ll only agree to his suggestions so you don’t anger him and get hurt further, not because your core is on fire and his soft metal lips are almost on yours. The heat radiating from his frame is almost as hot as your own.

“Good. This exercises requires coordination as well as concentration. Are you sure you'd like to try?” 

You nod again, powerless to give any other answer. You're unwilling to give any other answer. 

His thumb moves further down and he licks his lips slowly. And then he licks yours.

You cannot think. Cannot move. Except that’s another lie you’re telling yourself because you’re raising yourself up into his touch and opening your mouth wider, your tongue touching the place his has just left.

“You will sit still and not move,” he tells you with fake firmness. “Every movement you make will determine what I do or don’t do next. Is that clear?”

He’s not clear at all but you nod anyway. He was always going to make the rules up as he went along and you always knew this so there’s no point even pretending to be surprised. 

“Sit still,” Rung repeats himself. “And concentrate.”

His hand dips all the way down between your legs at the same time he sucks on your tongue and if you weren’t afraid of breaking his rules you’d pass out on top of him.


	2. [two]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ah, I can’t believe I wrote this back in September of last year! And that this was the very first transformers fic I wrote. Yep, I just dove straight into Shattered Glass Rung dubcon. And then I got distracted and wrote other things. I wrote this chapter immediately after chapter one, but never got around to posting it. I’m resisting the temptation to re-write this entire story, since I think my writing has changed and hopefully for the better, but I’m posting this chapter as it was initially written all those months ago.  
There’s another couple of chapters already written which I’ll post mainly as they are (but I won’t be able to resist editing them slightly) and then afterwards I’ll write them from scratch. It will be interesting to see if my style is then better, worse, or the same. Anyway, thank you for sticking with this story and for reading it. And for any comments you might have about it. I appreciate all feedback!

Heat and metal and movement. This is your world now. This is your heaven-hell.

Rung’s hand moves steadily between your legs. His fingers are cool and light and confident, maintaining a perfect pace and generating a fraction that has you moaning into his open mouth. He’s slowly sucking your tongue. Your face is pressed hard into his but it’s still not enough. You want more. You want him to take more. 

Your neck feels wet. You’re drooling out of the corner of your mouth, unable to kiss him back or swallow. You wonder if he’s noticed. You wonder if he’ll use his tongue to lap it up. You wonder if he’ll clean you up and mildly admonish you for making him work so hard. Perhaps you could wipe your chin and hold your fingers out for him to suck at the same time he sucks your tongue, so that you fill his mouth up completely.

You tense at the thought and feel molten, you feel light headed. You wonder if that’s broken his rule of not moving. 

He touches you for what could be minutes or seconds. You know it's not hours because you haven't passed out yet and you're sure that's the direction you're headed in. You wish you could tell how long it’s been. You wish he’d move his fingers lower and put them inside you.

Rung finally pulls away from your mouth, licking your lip as he does so, and you barely have time to register that he’s leaving as he retracts his hand from between your legs and sits up straight. Your body belatedly realises there’s a lack of contact and you lean forward to re-connect with him and kiss him but he just moves further away from you.

"Now," he tells you in pretend disappointment, an indulgent smile on his face. "You shouldn't do that. Anyone would think you want to kiss someone who's been touching you like that. You look far too...needy. The point of this exercise is to not want someone to touch you. Perhaps this lesson is too advanced for you. I apologise. Let’s end things for now."

With a swift fluidity he stands and clasps his hands behind his back. You struggle to get your breathing under control as he stands tall and powerful over you. His glowing eyes don’t move from your face but you know they see everything, from your panting mouth to your heaving chest to your wide open legs and you should close them, you really should close them. 

You dart glances at him. And when he continues to not move or speak you know he’s not going to do either until you move first. You bring your legs together slowly, reluctantly, and wonder if you can convince him it’s because you learnt more from this lesson than he gives you credit for. 

Rung bends at the waist to peer down at you. Perhaps he's going to kiss you again. Perhaps he'll lean in slowly and lick your mouth and start this lesson all over again. Your heart hammers and you start to sit up to meet him but he shoots an arm out and pins you back against the seat.

He bends down further until you're at eye level. His dexterous metal fingers press into your shoulder with just the right amount of pressure to be pleasurable, not painful, and you’ve already forgotten how warm they are but now they’re back on you and everything feels right again. Rung’s touch gives every indication that he's restricting you like this for your own safety, and that he knows you better than you know yourself. You wished you knew him better. You wish you didn't have to be saved. You wish his fingers would start stroking you again.

Rung unfolds his other arm from behind his back, and holds his hand out with the palm towards the ceiling. 

"If you please," he says politely. 

You hesitate, wondering what he wants. And then slowly, hesitatingly, you put one of your own hands on top of his. He is so horrifically warm and smooth. 

"Oh," he says, as if he’d anticipated this move all along and is now pretending that he’s surprised. "No. That isn't what I want." His eyes darken and his voice collapses into rusted metal and he whispers with a hiss "You're not giving me what I want."

You snatch your hand back as if scalded. And there it is again - that fear you have of him.   
That fear he clearly doesn't want you to forget or be without because you did forget it, for a short while you forgot him and you forgot yourself. He'll allow you to relax for a moment of his own choosing but never for long and never, ever on your own terms. You feel sick that the truth is not that you’d actually forgotten who he is, but rather that you chose not to focus on it.

"Well?" he says, voice like ice. "Are you going to give them to me? Or do I have to beg? Are you going to make me beg? Are you really going to do that to me?”

Another shot of adrenaline hits you and your heartbeat falters and you don’t know what to do. You don't know what he's talking about. You don't know what he wants and you just want your Rung back.

Rung leans down towards you another inch and blocks out all remaining light. He is dark metal angles and flat robotic planes and so very very sharp. His mouth is a scratch of black. A foreboding thrill of terror hits you that he'll sink his sharp metallic teeth into your face and press in, and press in.

His planet passes across his enslaved sun and brings the promise of light again. Rung smiles warmly at you. His eyes are now bright. His mouth is full and smooth and smiling. You want to close your eyes and curl into a ball and cry. 

"My glasses," he says pleasantly. "Would you please give them back to me?"

With trembling fingers you put them into his patiently waiting hand. He puts them on and squeezes your shoulder in a friendly gesture of thanks. "Thank you for looking after them for me."

He pushes his glasses back up his face with a finger. "Hmmm. They don't sit as well as they used to. But it's not your fault. I’m not blaming you for doing this to them." He squeezes your shoulder again, this time harder, and removes his hand and walks backwards from you. You wish you were somewhere else. You wish you were someone else.

"We've run out of time for today," he informs you politely, as he walks to his desk and presses a button. The lights of the office burst into full brightness and the door slides open. You squint at the suddenness of it. "I'll take the liberty of scheduling our next session together. But only if that's OK with you?"

You're not sure if you managed to nod as you stumble to your feet, but Rung must be satisfied because he doesn't repeat himself or try to stop you. You take one last look at him before you leave. He's sitting in serene stillness behind his desk with an expression on his face that you don't care to analyse.

His elbows are resting on the desk and his fingers are steepled. His eyes behind his glasses are a self contained storm of horror.

You make it back to your room without being harassed and collapse onto your bed. You're desperate for rest. And relief. Rung's worked up a charge in you that you know isn't going away soon. You should just face it and take care of it quickly so you no longer have to think about it. 

You slide your hand down into your pants and swear to yourself this will be quick but then you stop. You shouldn't do this. You shouldn't do this not because you’ll be thinking of him, but because you broke his rule and moved. You don't deserve this. You deserve to be punished.

You take your hand away and clasp both of them over your stomach. You close your eyes and try to still your mind and think of anything else but him. You have a couple of days to prepare yourself for your next session with him and you need to rest. 

Two minutes later your communicator bleeps sharply and you snap your eyes open. 

It's Rung. 

He informs you sadly that your next session started a minute ago, and that you're late. You’re so terribly late.

Your heart pumps so hard you’re sure he can hear it. You walk briskly to his office and knock on the door before your nerve can fail you. Maybe he made a mistake with his scheduling. As the door slides open you know that’s always been impossible. Rung doesn’t make mistakes. He doesn’t make anything he hasn’t already planned.

You step into his office and the door closes behind you. It feels like it’s been years since you were last here but also as if you’ve never left. 

“Welcome,” he says, as if he hasn’t seen you in weeks and is prepared to launch into a reminder of why you’re here. “Please relax on the seat over there and strip from the waist down. Don’t make a sound and then don’t move.”

You look at him. He’s completely serious. 

As if walking through a thick soup you make it to the seat and follow his instructions. It’s humiliating and thrilling to be exposed like this to him. Your legs are clamped together and your arms folded across your chest. 

Rung doesn’t sit down next to you. Instead he crouches down in front of you and puts a hand on your knee.

“Our last session didn’t go so well, so I’ve decided it’s best we take things down a level.” He strokes you behind your knee.

Down a level? He thinks this is going down a level? You suppose It’s true you no longer have to worry about his glasses falling off your face. And if he’s going to do what you hope, think, hope he’s about to do then you only have one action to focus on ignoring instead of two. 

Rung’s fingers stroke idly up and down your leg. You feel yourself relax and sink back into the seat. 

“Good,” he tells you, as he finally puts his hand on your other leg. “If you show them you’re relaxed like this they’ll start to doubt they’re having any effect on you and will get bored." He strokes the back of both of your legs with smooth metal fingers, tracing patterns that peak at your knee and end at your ankle. Up and down and up and down he strokes you, leaving trails of tingling fire in their wake.

"The others probably won’t even get this far, but I'm showing you just in case. Please remember not to make a sound. I know you're trying your best, but you could try harder for me. But only if you want to of course. These lessons are for your benefit."

You feel your legs start to open but you stop yourself. Perhaps you should try and focus. You failed the last lesson and you don’t want to upset him. But even more than that you want his hands to move higher, and the only way that’s going to happen is if you show you’re failing. You can’t win. 

Your desire and frustration is growing with every second, with every expert stroke of his ambidextrous hands and you can’t give in for much longer, especially after he worked up such a fire in you earlier. You want more. You want to prove that you can pay attention to him. You want him.

You steel yourself and close your eyes and open your legs for him.

Rung's hands stop moving. You wait. And wait. And wait some more. 

Your entire body tenses. But you don't move. If he’s going to tell you how disappointed he is in you, then you wish he’d hurry up and do so. You just want to know. You just want something to happen. 

You finally crack open your eyes and look at him.

He looks eager. 

You open your eyes fully to be sure. And as soon as you make eye contact with him, that’s when he spreads your legs wider and collapses his head and licks you.

You cover your mouth with a hand to muffle your sounds but it’s too late. It’s all too late. You’ve made a sound and you’ve both heard it and now he’s going to stop. 

But he doesn’t stop. 

He works on you slowly. He works on you as if you’re the most intriguing thing he’s ever tasted. He must be giving you a second chance to compose yourself but it’s hard, it’s so very hard to be quiet when his tongue is exploring you as if you're his new home. 

You now have both hands over your mouth and you're trying to keep quiet but you can't, you just can't. 

Rung licks you slowly. His mouth is soft and he kisses your damp skin carefully, constantly. He licks you with long languid strokes of his tongue, up and down and up and down and sucks you, making the most obscenely wet noises. His glasses are damp and his face is wet. You want to pull his head up and clean them both with your mouth. You want to kiss him and lick inside his open mouth until he’s moaning. Then you want to push his head back down between your open legs for more. 

You want to hold him close to you so that he’ll never leave. 

Rung uses his tongue and mouth on you in ways you’ve never imagined. And he does so slowly. So infuriatingly slowly. You press into his face for more, for anything more you can get, just a bit more pressure a bit more surface area just a bit more of him. You’re gasping and your charge is building and he’s not stopping, he’s really not stopping, his hands are gripping your thighs and you’re hunching over and panting and fuck you’re almost there and--

And then he stops. 

He removes his tongue with a long wet sound and stands back up. He smiles down at you.

You want to scream. 

"That was a much better effort," Rung congratulates you. He runs two thin fingers across his wet lips and holds them up to eye level to study them. They’re dripping. He puts one in his mouth and sucks it clean. He sucks it slowly. And thoroughly. 

He removes it from his mouth with a small pop. “Well done.” 

You want him to offer you his other finger. You want him to put it on your chin and drag it up to your closed mouth. You want him to give you a warning look that says you can’t rush these things so be patient, be still. His finger will then part your closed lips and sink in between them. And slowly, slowly, he’ll insert it all the way down to his knuckle and you’ll suck on it like you were starving.

But Rung summons a cloth from his subspace and wipes his other finger clean. He tilts his head towards the door. “That’s all we have time for today. I'll contact you when I've scheduled our next session." 

He neatly folds the cloth and places it in the center of his desk. "Don’t worry, it will be soon. Now please get dressed and leave."

It's one of the hardest things you've ever had to do.

On your way back to your room you decide not to touch yourself when you get there. You're burning up and it would take only seconds to bring yourself relief but you're not going to. He'll call you in for another session later on today and you're so charged up you know that whatever he does to you will bring you over the edge. You just have to be patient. To focus. You know that he's going to call you soon.

Rung doesn't speak to you until five days later.


End file.
